


Now that I've found into your arms

by shamelessnameless



Series: Keep My Shirt [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:54:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4942159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessnameless/pseuds/shamelessnameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mario showed up out of nowhere in the tunnel, pressing his hand lightly on Marco’s neck. </p><p>--------------------------</p><p>How to make a long-distance relationship work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now that I've found into your arms

**Author's Note:**

> Another title got stolen, this one is taken from Sufjan Stevens.
> 
> Set after the terrible game this sunday that we all want to forget as soon as possible.

Mario showed up out of nowhere in the tunnel, pressing his hand lightly on Marco’s neck. He stepped closer, their bodies touching. “I’d wish you could stay for a bit,” Mario whispered, keeping his voice low. Marco sighed and shrugged. He always had a harder time to keep his identity as a football player separate from his identity as Mario’s partner. The loss, this embarrassing, terrible loss sat heavy in his stomach and he knew that Mario meant no harm, but he wanted to shove him off. Mario squeezed his neck and then took a step away. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t want to push. Have a safe trip home, yeah?” And off he went.

\-------------------------

It was always hard after the games they played against each other. It wasn’t the competition as much as the strain it put on both of them to see the other and not being able to touch each other the way they wanted to, to not be able to stop and talk for more than a few minutes. It had gotten better in time, but they both still struggled with it. 

Marco remembered well, too well really, how nervous they both had been in their first game against each other. Marco had been able to stay after that one, even if it was just for a night and he had barely unlocked the front door when Mario had been on him, teeth and tongue and hands desperate. They had ended up having sex right there on Mario’s floor, too impatient to do anything but give each other hard, desperate hand jobs. They went to bed a few hours later; after Mario had fed Marco some pasta and chocolate, blush high on his cheeks when Marco had praised his cooking skills. Cooking had been something that was mostly done by Marco when Mario had still lived in Dortmund, while Mario had cleaned up the dishes and kitchen and had done their laundry. Marco knew how important his opinion of whatever Mario did was to his boyfriend and he usually didn’t censor himself; let Mario know exactly when he was proud or touched or protective. They had sex once more just before falling asleep, taking their time for this round. Mario had been on top, slowly riding Marco while looking down on him and Marco had returned his gaze calmly, not breaking eye contact for even a second. It had been intense and deeply intimate and when they had both reached their orgasms Mario had cuddled up to Marco, shuddering against him and saying “I’ve missed you so much,” in an aching voice.

Other times it had been less enjoyable. They were usually not able to spent a night with each other after their league games and when Mario was being side-lined during Bayern’s games and criticised in every major newspaper and Marco hadn’t been able to stay with him, he had lost it, screaming at Marco that he was never there for him. “You don’t care,” he had shouted, “I can’t take it anymore and you’re never around and I just want one fucking night with my boyfriend to make it hurt less but you never…” Marco had broken him off then, wrapping his arms around him and Mario had deflated shortly after, burying his face on Marco’s shoulder while his body had started to shake. Marco had stroked his hair and held him until Mario had pulled himself together, giving Marco a watery smile once Marco looked at him. They had continued to text for hours afterwards and Marco ended up skyping Mario after making it back to Dortmund, Mario for once admitting that he wasn’t doing well without the fear of appearing weak. He had given Marco one of his real, genuine smiles when they were ending their call and Marco had sent him a care package the next day with one of his shirts that he knew Mario was lusting after and few shiny things that he knew Mario would enjoy. Mario had sent him a selfie the next day, wearing Marco’s shirt, grinning from ear to ear.

\-------------------------

Marco texted Mario after he had taken a shower and stopped feeling like punching a Bayern player was a really great idea. Mario waited for him in one of the attached and now empty physio rooms next to the locker rooms for the away teams. He gently stroked his fingers through Marco’s wet hair, embracing him softly, brushing a careful kiss over Marco’s brows and eyes. “I’m sorry,” Mario said, voice thick and Marco gave up on his hurt and let himself sink into the embrace. “I’m so so sorry when you’re upset,” Mario continued, clutching Marco closer, hands slipping underneath Marco’s shirt and splaying warm on his back, grip firm. “Not you fault,” Marco whispered, his own voice softer. Mario took in a deep breath and pulled away to look into Marco’s eyes, before he kissed him carefully. Marco kissed him back with a lot more hunger, biting Mario’s bottom lip and sliding his tongue into his mouth. Mario didn’t take their kiss further, answering Marco with an even gentler touch. They broke off slowly, Marco breathing hard while Mario took his face into both of his hands, studying Marco intently. “You look fucking tired, Marco,” he said. Marco shrugged. Mario stroked back his fringe again. “Stop worrying,” Marco said.

\-------------------------

Marco knew that Mario hadn’t stopped worrying about him ever since he couldn’t attend the world cup. Marco knew about Mario’s reasons quite well; there were barely any days nowadays when he made it out of bed without pain. Sometimes it was only Mario’s voice in his ear that got him up when the nights had been particularly bad and though he never had told him, Marco assumed that Mario’s only reason to actually get up early himself was Mario knowing how much he helped Marco getting up on the bad days. Marco’s game was off, had truthfully been off for months now and calling Mario a lot while he was drunk and rambling, sharing his insecurities and deepest fears with Mario that he would never perform on a truly high level again, had probably not helped Marco’s case. Marco didn’t worry any less about Mario, especially in the weeks when Guardiola’s refusal to let him play had been followed by harsh critique in every major newspaper and Mario had him called every night, not saying a word while Marco told him tales about Mats in training, Auba’s confusion with German traffic laws, Nuri’s continuing losing streak in Fifa, hoping that what Mario heard was that he shouldn’t take the criticism to heart. 

\-------------------------

But Mario seemed to be almost restless now in the way he was studying Marco, eyes searching Marco’s face quickly and intensely. He had texted him more than once that Marco could tell Mario anything and Marco wasn’t sure what was going on. 

\-------------------------

They were usually excellent in reading in each other, relied on their knowledge of the other’s true intention whenever they got into a fight that made it hard to stay reasonable. A few months back, Mario had felt as if too much attention was paid on them for being friends and he had asked Marco to tone down the attention they gave each other during national team meet-ups or during their games as rivals for different teams. Marco had accepted, because the knew how deeply afraid Mario was of being outed, how much Mario struggled with the fear of somehow giving out vibes that made people suspect that he didn’t climb in bed with Ann every night. Mario himself knew that his fear was irrational and Marco had been mad at him at first for forcing them to stay away from each other when they could hardly ever see each other. But Mario had took the time to explain his reasoning, had broken down for Marco why this was important for him and Marco hadn’t liked it, but it was pretty much impossible for him to resist Mario whenever Mario was serious about something. It was the same thing for Mario and they had long ago accepted that they were willing to do things for each other that they would virtually not take the care to do for anyone else. 

\-------------------------

“I don’t know what’s wrong today, but I have a really hard time letting you go today,” Mario admitted, and fuck, his eyes were welling up and Marco hated this part of their relationship so much, them seeing each other but not being able to stay with each other. He broke the hold Mario had on his own face and instead trailed his own hands down Mario’s back, cradling his head in one of his hands and brought Mario closer to himself. “I know, Sunny. I wish I wouldn’t have to leave,” Marco whispered, brushing his nose against Mario’s ear. 

\-------------------------

But he didn’t have the time to stay, never had the time to stay. Their relationship existed in written text message, early morning and late-night skype calls, the selfies they sent each other, restless sex whenever the national team met up and they could get away with it. From time to time they managed to sneak away for a week but they hadn’t had any holidays with each other in months now. They were stretched thin and that usually put a strain on their relationship until they could steal some time for each other and it hurt Marco to leave so soon again, but he couldn’t help it.

They were normally quite good in providing each other with support. They had to be; especially in times when they were both stressed out and couldn’t see each other for weeks with no end in sight. It had been a rather long trial and error period, but by now Marco knew what to do to make Mario feel loved and supported and protected without being with him in Munich. Essential was a lot of time to coax out what Mario needed to say, some little gift that he sent in the mail, a lot of text messages calling Mario pet names without sounding obnoxious. It was harder when Mario was wildly and despairingly miserable, when Marco ran out of words and ideas to make him feel better, when they both knew that if they were just able to spend a few hours with each other they would feel infinitely better. From time to time they were irresponsible, though that had gotten harder with Marco’s ban on driving and would throw caution in the wind and just go and see each other for a few hours somewhere in Germany. Marco remembered one instance when he had gotten injured in the DFB cup and Marco had been frantic with worry, begging Mario to meet up with him even though the injury turned out to be harmless enough. Marco had been exhausted and couldn’t keep a lid on his emotions once they’ve met up in the first class lounge in Hanover, clutching Mario and imagining worst case scenarios even though he had yet to go and have someone look at his leg. Mario had soothed him for three hours before they both needed to take their connecting flights back home, had whispered in Marco’s ear, hands lightly massaging Marco’s fingers and neck and it had been enough to make Marco feel able to breathe again, vice on his chest lifted by Mario’s soft words of encouragement. 

\-------------------------

“I’m just,” Mario said and then broke off, laughing harshly, “tired,” he continued and lightly kissed Marco’s throat.

\-------------------------

They both were, all the fucking time. Marco still remembered with a shiver how impossible tired he had been when he couldn’t attend the world cup. He was shaken awake once by Marcel, who had in turn been called by Mario from Brazil when he couldn’t reach Marco for 15 hours straight, all of which Marco had spent sleeping. When Marco made his comeback in Paderborn and then immediately got injured again, Mario had driven up to Dortmund to spend the next one and a half days with Marco. Marco had been so fucking groggy and in pain that they spent all of that time on Marco’s couch, with Marco’s upper body pillowed on Mario’s chest, his hurt leg resting on three pillows. Mario had petted him carefully, pressing kisses into Marco’s hair while he had tried hard to not start crying. He had been too exhausted to eat and Mario had simply rocked him when Marco finally understood that he had months of physical therapy in front of him again and couldn’t stop the tears, regret and pain rolling off of him in waves. 

They did that a lot – crying in front of each other. Marco had really no excuse; it wasn’t that he wanted to let Mario see him cry that often, but Mario was the only person Marco could let his guard down with completely and their stressful lives seemed to catch up with them whenever they managed to spent more than a few hours with each other. The secrecies, their performances on the pitch, Marco’s on-going injuries, Mario’s low level of self esteem – all the barriers they had erected with other people broke away when it was just the two of them. Crying was relief and being comforted by someone who knew how to provide the best support for you was an even bigger one. 

They also laughed a lot with each other, were incredibly silly whenever they saw each other. Nobody got Marco’s jokes like Mario did and nobody understood Mario’s sarcasm as well as Marco. Mario had first given Marco all the support he had needed when his injuries had prevented him from playing for months and then continued to gently start teasing him when Marco couldn’t take the pity any longer. Marco knew exactly when to rile Mario up good-naturedly whenever Mario was feeling sorry for himself about his lack of playing time on the pitch. It helped them both as much as words of love and encouragement did, took the edge off when they both felt suffocated by people worrying about them.

\-------------------------

Marco studied Mario’s face for a moment and then in turn tugged him close once more, stroking his back up and down. He would have to leave in a moment, but the solace they got from each other seemed more important than the drive back to the hotel BVB was staying in. Both of them were nominated for the national team meet up next weekend and would get to see each other rather soon again, but saying goodbye to Mario when they’d been playing each other was always one of the hardest thing for both of them to do. “What are you worried about?” Marco whispered in Mario’s ear and Mario sighed, pressing his face against Marco’s neck. “You’re too thin again,” he admitted after a moment, pressing himself closer, preventing Marco from meeting his eyes.

\-------------------------

They both had their pet peeves. For Marco it was Mario’s crippling self-doubt, which made it impossible for Mario to ask for help when he needed it, that made it impossible for him to admit that he was hurt or miserable. Mario usually put on a fake bravado during interviews that Marco couldn’t watch at all, too upset by the way Mario’s eyes were shining, by the way his eyelid was twitching, by the way he tried to answer questions in a way that he thought was the right one. Marco was normally able to break through Mario’s barriers, got him to open up, unless Bayern was playing in Dortmund and Mario was too upset by the welcome he received in the Westfalenstadion to talk with Marco beforehand or afterwards. Marco hated the week just before those games, when Mario was needy and full of regret and unable to accept the solace Marco wanted to offer him, because some part of Mario thought he didn’t deserve what he craved. It was always worst when the walls of Mario’s self defence that he had been steadily building up the last few years, couldn’t even be knocked down by Marco and Mario would apologize for days afterwards, assuring Marco again and again that everything was Mario’s fault and Marco was never to blame for their lack of communication. Mario’s inability to express himself made Mario angsty and even more self-loathing and it took Marco hours to calm him down when he finally got him to open up again, when Mario resurfaced from the panic he was in before his games in Dortmund. Mario would not sit still during those conversations, running around in whatever room they were in, scratching his arms or tugging at his hair and Marco ached for him.

For Mario, the biggest pet peeve was Marco’s weight and Marco had to admit that he could understand where the worry was coming from. Marco tended to not be able to stomach anything whenever he was sick or upset or he simply forgot to eat when he was stressed out. He was pretty thin to begin with and loosing a kilo or two showed quickly, especially noticeable to someone who spent a lot of his free time exploring Marco’s body. Marco had lost a lot of weight after Mario’s transfer, then lost a lot of weight when he missed the world cup and continued to lose a lot of weight during the injuries that followed. Not being able to play as well as he wanted to do, had taken its toll in the last weeks and he was a bit thinner again than what Mario considered to be healthy for him. If Mario was around whenever Marco felt like not eating, he would prepare them light snack after light snack, sitting down close next to Marco whenever Marco ate something, his body’s warmth comforting. When Mario wasn’t around he fretted and called and called again, but Marco wasn’t that good with eating when he didn’t want to and when no one was around to place a warm hand on his upset belly. 

\-------------------------

“I’m sorry,” Mario said again, “I’ve been having a shit week.” Marco gently stroked his nose along the strong line of Mario’s neck, tipping his forehead against Mario’s. He chuckled and said “I’ve been having a shit game just now, so no worries” and Mario snorted, pressing another kiss against his neck. “I’ll be seeing you soon though,” Marco said, “national team. Maybe I’ll manage to survive it without another injury.” “Don’t,” Mario said, his voice harsh, “don’t even joke about that, please.”

\-------------------------

Marco knew how hard Mario took his injuries, how angry and upset he got about them every time. Mario was almost half convinced that Marco was going to leave him soon enough at the best of times and not being able to be there for him and support him, made Mario go absolutely crazy with worry. He usually called Marco in the mornings, his voice soft and intimate while Marco listened to him ramble in bed, grinning and only interrupting occasionally. Mario would text him a lot throughout the day and they tried to skype each other in the evenings, but in the weeks of Marco’s various injuries, Mario had sneaked off during training to call Marco almost every 30 minutes, voice concerned and hushed when he talked with him. Thomas had ended up calling Marco as well, telling him that it wasn’t helping Mario’s standing with the coach if he was this distracted and Marco had made him stop calling, but he couldn’t stop Mario from worrying. 

Worrying had been a constant of both of their lives for years by then. It had started with worrying whether they would make it as professionals, how they could survive as professionals who were very much gay, how they could survive playing in the same team when they were very much in love, how they could survive when they were still very much in love but not in the same team anymore. Marco could see the effort and effect the constant worrying had taken on Mario, who had once been the sweetest and gentlest person Marco had ever met, and who had started to be too afraid to let anyone see his real self after his transfer. Mario was still very much the person Marco had fallen in love with, but nobody else got so see that side of him any longer, instead being treated with a certain aloofness that hurt Marco whenever he witnessed it. 

Mario had doubted anything but his relationship with Marco in the years they’d known each other and Marco had never felt as helpless as when Mario had called him late on night, drunk and sobbing and told Marco that he wanted to go back home, that he had made a terrible mistake coming to Munich. Mario had been out with some of his teammates and hadn’t managed to let loose, hadn’t trusted himself enough to drink anything that could make him less inhibited, already feeling down and lonely and so he had excused himself early, went back home and got drunk before he gathered the courage to call and tell Marco what he was feeling. By then Marco had suspected for months that Mario wanted to admit to him how much he regretted the transfer but it hadn’t prepared him for Mario’s desperate crying at all. “I can never come back home,” Mario had said and his voice had broken off and Marco had tried to calm him down, but couldn’t, miles away and with no possibility to hug or pet him. “We’ll work it out,” he had promised, but they had both known that that was a lie.

There truly was nothing to work out – Mario would never return to Dortmund, no matter how much they both had wished for it at times. Marco had missed him terribly during the last season, when everything around him went to hell and he could only relax when he was with Mario. Mario had gone out of his way to come up to Dortmund as often as possible and Marco had spent a few weeks at his home in Munich when he wasn’t even allowed to start rehab. While Marco’s professional life had been going to pieces, his personal one was for once recovering in those weeks. He would wake up in Mario’s arms, would go to sleep in Mario’s arms, was able to have all the sex and physical contact he wanted. It had been blissful and when it had come to an end, it was almost impossible for both of them to stomach it. Mario had been distraught, clinging to Marco in the hours before he had taken his flight back. Marco knew that he still felt guilty for leaving Marco behind, no matter how often they had talked about it and no matter how often Marco had ended up assuring Mario that he wasn’t resentful about Mario’s decisions. 

Of course, there had been a time when he had been just that, holding on to his grudge for so long while claiming that he wasn’t angry with Mario, that it had almost destroyed their relationship for good. Mario had pleaded with him to be honest, had done a lot to make amends. He had spoiled Marco rotten in those first few months after he had left, but Marco had been unable to stop feeling sorry for himself. Their relationship had always felt like something holy to him, something that most other gay footballers never got to have – someone he could work with, someone who understood all his struggles and challenged and wouldn’t end up hating him for not coming out and for having a fake girlfriend. He knew that Mario had done it for his career and that he didn’t love Marco any less but seeing him play in red, claiming that others were just jealous of his success…it had been hard for Marco to see his Mario as this new, confident Bayern player. It had taken three days of silence from Marco’s side a few months after Mario’s move to Munich and a frantic Mario on his doorstep who continued to have a full breakdown in his living room once Marco had let him in, to make Marco see Mario’s point of view. Mario hadn’t slept at all that night, talking about his helplessness; his feeling of inadequateness, his loneliness and Marco had listened to him, stroked his back and shared his own feelings in turn. Mario had admitted openly that he had been a petulant child when he had decided to play for Bayern and Marco had believed him when he claimed that he couldn’t survive this if he had broken their relationship as well. They had started to be brutally honest with each other after that and it had worked out. Marco couldn’t imagine his life without Mario in it, no matter how often he had cursed the distance, their careers, football in general, their families, their lack of support because virtually no one knew about their relationship.

Ann was one of the few people who knew about them, but she wasn’t exactly bothered with their relationship. Marco knew that she had tried hard in the beginning, tried to be someone who Mario could trust and talk to. “I just can’t,” Mario had said once, voice tired and aching, “I just can’t open up to someone about this. I tried and I know she won’t be telling anyone anything, but I just can’t talk with her,” and Marco had stopped pushing him afterwards, knowing well enough how badly Mario’s parents had taken the truth about their son’s sexuality. Mario wasn’t exactly ashamed about liking men and he certainly wasn’t ashamed about liking Marco, was in fact deeply protective of him, but his experiences with other men and trying to come out to friends in the past had made him wary. It had taken the two of them months to get together, because Marco had felt, without being able to pinpoint why, that it was important that Mario took the first step, that Mario realized that he really wanted this, wanted them, before committing to anything. When he had finally done it after months of them being best friends, after telling each other all their secrets, after confiding in each other and supporting each other and shouldering the burden of the expectations of their fans with each other, Marco had known that this was going to last, that they would end up with each other and that waiting for each other during the years they would play as professionals before being able to actually live their life together was worth it. Mario had known it as well, even though he was less vocal about it.

\-------------------------

“I have to go, darling,” Marco whispered after they had simply breathed each other in for a few long moments. Mario looked up at him and nodded, sighing deeply. They didn’t say I love you, because it was something that didn’t need to be said.


End file.
